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DAISY'S AUNT
by
E. F. BENSON
Thomas Nelson and Sons
London, Edinburgh, Dublin,
Leeds, and New York
Leipzig: 35-37 Konigstrasse.
Paris: 61 Rue des Saints Peres.
First Published May 1910.
+--------------------------------------+
| |
| _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ |
| |
| THE |
| PRINCESS SOPHIA |
| |
| Price 7d. net |
| |
| In this work faithful realism |
| and a true vein of poetic romance |
| are subtly blended. |
| |
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CONTENTS
Chapter I. 7
Chapter II. 27
Chapter III. 42
Chapter IV. 56
Chapter V. 70
Chapter VI. 79
Chapter VII. 95
Chapter VIII. 110
Chapter IX. 118
Chapter X. 147
Chapter XI. 165
Chapter XII. 182
Chapter XIII. 197
Chapter XIV. 215
Chapter XV. 227
Chapter XVI. 240
Chapter XVII. 247
Chapter XVIII. 263
Chapter XIX. 277
Chapter XX. 286
Chapter XXI. 293
Chapter XXII. 308
Chapter XXIII. 320
Chapter XXIV. 333
Chapter XXV. 344
Chapter XXVI. 357
Chapter XXVII. 365
DAISY'S AUNT.
CHAPTER I.
Daisy Hanbury poked her parasol between the bars of the cage, with the
amiable intention of scratching the tiger's back. The tiger could not be
expected to know this all by himself, and so he savagely bit the end of
it off, with diabolical snarlings. Daisy turned to her cousin with a
glow of sympathetic pleasure.
"What a darling!" she said. "He didn't understand, you see, and was
perfectly furious. And it cost pounds and pounds, and I've spent all my
allowance, and so I can't buy another, and my complexion will go to the
dogs. Let's go there, too; the dingoes are absolutely fascinating.
We'll come back to see these angels fed."
Gladys laughed.
"Daisy, you have got the most admirable temper," she said. "I should
have called that brute any names except 'darling' and 'angel.'"
"I know you would, because you don't understand either it or me. I
understand both perfectly. You see, you don't love fierce wild
things--things that are wicked and angry, and, above all, natural. I
don't mind good, sweet, gentle things, like--oh, like almost everybody,
if only they are sweet and good naturally. But generally they are not.
Their sweetness is the result of education or morality, or something
tedious, not the result of their natures, of themselves. Oh, I know all
about it! Gladys, this parasol is beyond hope. Let's conceal it in the
bushes like a corpse."
Daisy looked round with a wild and suspicious eye.
"There's a policeman," she said. "I'm sure he'll think that I have
murdered my own parasol. Oh, kind Mr. Policeman--there, that softened
him, and he's looking the other way."
Gladys gave a little shriek of dismay as Daisy thrust her parasol into a
laurustinus.
"Oh! but the handle, and the ribs!" she cried. "It only wanted a new
point, and--and to be recovered. Daisy, I never saw such extravagance.
You mustn't leave it. I'll have it done up for you."
"That's angelic of you," said Daisy; "but will you carry it for me in
the meantime? It's that that matters. I couldn't be seen going about
even at the Zoo with a parasol in that condition. I should have to
explain to everybody exactly how it happened, which would take time."
"But of course I'll carry it for you," said Gladys.
Daisy considered this noble offer.
"It's quite too wonderful of you," she said, "but I don't think I could
be seen with you if you were carrying it. No; come to the dogs. Oh,
Gladys, you are sweet and good and gentle quite, quite naturally, and I
adore you."
The dingoes were rewarding, and Daisy instantly curried favour with
their keeper, and learnt about their entrancing habits; afterwards the
two went back to see the lions fed before leaving. The tiger which had
ruined her parasol proved to have the most excellent appetite, which
much relieved Daisy's mind, as she feared that the point, which he
seemed to have completely eaten, might have spoilt his dinner. She
hurried breathlessly down the line as the huge chops of raw meat were
passed in and snatched up by the animals, absorbed and radiant. Gladys,
as always, followed where the other led, but was conscious of qualms.
These she concealed as best she could.
"Oh, I want to say grace for them all," said Daisy at the end. "I _do_
hope they are pleased with their dinners. Are the keepers fair, do you
think? There was a dreadful amount of bone in my parasol-tiger's dinner,
if you understand. Gladys, I don't believe you loved it. How stupid of
you! You don't quite understand; you don't know how nice it is to be
greedy instead of gentle. Do try. Oh, no, let's go out by this gate."
"But we shall have to walk miles before we get a cab," said Gladys.
"I know; that's why. It will make us late for Aunt Alice's tea-party. I
hate tea-parties."
"But mother asked me to be back by five," said Gladys.
"Did she? Did she really?" asked Daisy.
"Indeed she did."
"Oh, well, then of course we'll drive back, though I did want to walk.
But it can't possibly be helped. We must drive. It is such a pity not
to do as you are asked. I always do, except when Willie asks me to
marry him."
They got into their hansom and bowled silently down the dry grey road.
All June was in flower in the pink pyramids of the chestnut-trees, and
was already beginning to bleach the colour out of the long coarse grass
in the open spaces of the Park. There swarms of girls and boys rioted
ecstatically; here the more lucky, in possession of a battered bat and a
ball begrimed with much honourable usage, had set up three crooked
sticks to serve as wickets, and played with an enthusiasm that the
conditions of the game might justly have rendered difficult of
achievement. The one thing certain about the ball was that it would not
come off the baked, uneven ground at the angle at which it might be
expected. It might shoot, or on pitching might tower like a partridge,
and any ball pitched off the wicket might easily take it; the only thing
quite certain was that a straight ball (unless a full pitch) would not.
Above, the thick dusky blue of a fine summer day in London formed a
cloudless dome, where the sun still swung high on its westering course.
In front of the distances that dusky pall was visible, and the houses at
the edge of the Park were blurred in outline and made beautiful by the
inimitable dinginess of the city.
But Gladys had no eye for all this; she was burning to know what was the
latest development in the Willie affair, but her whole-hearted affection
for her cousin was a little touched by timidity, and she did not quite
like to question her. For Daisy, in spite of her charm, was a little
formidable at times; at times she would have moods of entrancing
tenderness; she could comfort or appeal, just as she could take the most
sympathetic pleasure in the fact that a fierce tiger was annoyed at her
amiable intentions, and had spoilt her best parasol. But at other times
there was something of the tiger in her--that, no doubt, was why she
understood this one so well--which made Gladys a little shy of her. She
had often, so to speak, bitten off the end of her cousin's parasol
before now, and Gladys did not appreciate that as much as Daisy had just
done. So in silence she looked a little sideways at that brilliant,
vivid face, flushed with the swift blood of its twenty-two years, that
looked so eagerly from its dark grey eyes on to the activity of the
playing children. But silences were generally short when Daisy was
present, and she proceeded to unfold herself with rapidity and all the
naturalness of which she deplored the lack in the gentle, good people.
"Oh! how they are enjoying themselves," she said, "with really no
material at all. Gladys, think what a lot of material a person like me
wants to make her enjoy herself! It really is shocking. My gracious,
what an ugly child that is! Don't look at it; you never should look at
ugly things--it's bad for the soul. Yes, I want such a lot to make me
happy--all there is, in fact--and poor darling Willie hasn't got all
there is. He's the sort of man I should like to marry when I am
forty-three. Do you know what I mean? He would be quite charming if one
were forty-three. He's quite charming now, if it comes to that, and I'm
dreadfully fond of him, but he thinks about me too much; he's too
devoted. I hear his devotion going on tick, tick, all the time, like the
best clocks. That's one reason for not marrying him."
"I don't think it's a good one, though," remarked Gladys.
"Yes, it is. Because a man always expects from his wife what he gives
her. He would be absolutely happy living with me on a desert island;
but--I know it's true--he would tacitly require that I should be
absolutely happy living with him on a desert island. Well, I
shouldn't--I shouldn't--I shouldn't. I should not! Is that clear?"
"Quite."
"Very well, then, why did you say it wasn't? Oh, yes, I know I am right.
And he would always see that I was well wrapped up, and wonder whether I
wasn't a little pale. I can't bear that sort of thing. No doubt it's
one way of love; but I must say I prefer another. I daresay the love
that is founded on esteem and respect and affection is a very excellent
thing, but it's one of those excellent things which I am quite willing
to let other people have and enjoy. It's like--like Dresden china; I am
sure it is quite beautiful, but I don't want any myself. I wish you
would marry Willie yourself, darling. Don't mind me."
They rattled out over the cobblestones of the gate into Baker Street,
and plunged into the roaring traffic. Daisy had still a great deal to
say, and she raised her voice to make it heard above the intolerable
clatter of motor 'buses and the clip-clop of horses' hoofs.
"Besides, as I said, I want such a lot of things. I'm hard and worldly
and disgusting; but so it is. I want to be right at the top of the tree,
and if I married Willie I should just be Mrs. Carton, with that decaying
old place in Somerset; very nice and intensely respectable, but that's
all. It's quite a good thing to be nice and respectable, but it's rather
a vegetable thing to be, if you are nothing else. I must be an animal at
least, and that's why I'm playing 'Animal Grab.'"
Gladys looked--as was indeed the case--as if she did not quite
understand this surprising statement.
"I'm very slow, I know," she said, "but----"
"Yes, darling, you are, but you do know what I mean, though you don't
know you know it. I've often seen you wondering about it. Oh, that motor
'bus is going to run into us! It isn't; how can you be so nervous? It
cleared us by at least a quarter of an inch. Yes, 'Animal Grab.' Now
'yes' or 'no,' do you know what I mean, or don't you?"
Gladys trembled under these direct assaults. But she thought "yes" was
more likely to be favourably received than "no," and so allowed herself
to say "yes."
But it proved to be a vain hope that Daisy would thereupon go on and
explain. That was so like Daisy; she never did what you hoped or
expected she might. Gladys on this occasion, with her pink, timorous
face and general air of discouragement, prayed that Daisy might not
trouble about her, but just go on talking. It is true that Daisy did
talk next, but, instead of expounding, she rapped out a question.
"So you do know," she said. "Then what is it?"
Gladys shut her eyes for a moment to encourage bravery.
"I suppose it means that you are thinking whether you will marry Lord
Lindfield or not," she said.
Daisy, however peremptory, was not a bully.
"How did you guess that, dear?" she asked.
"It wasn't very difficult. It couldn't have been, you see, or I
shouldn't have guessed it. But he has been--well, a good deal interested
in you, hasn't he, and you----"
"Do you mean I've encouraged him?" asked Daisy, with an inquisitorial
air.
"No, I mean just the opposite. You've rather snubbed him." Gladys made a
huge demand on her courage. "But you've snubbed him in such a way that
it comes to the same thing as if you had encouraged him," she said.
Daisy considered this.
"I think you've got a horrid mind, Gladys," she said at length. "If I
encourage somebody you tell me I am flirting, and if I discourage him
you tell me it comes to the same thing. And you do me an injustice. I
haven't snubbed or discouraged him. I've--I've remained neutral, until I
could make up my mind. Do you think he cares for me? I really don't
know whether he does or not. I can always tell with the gentle, good
people like Willie, and it is gentle, good people whom I see most. Oh!"
Daisy gave a great sigh, and leant out over the folded door of the
hansom.
"I'm not sure if I want to marry Lord Lindfield or not," she said, "but
I'm perfectly certain that I don't want him to marry anybody else. I
think I should like him always to remain wanting to marry me, while I
didn't want to marry him. I'm dreadfully glad you think that I can snub
or encourage him, because that means that you think he cares. I should
be perfectly miserable if I thought he didn't."
"I don't think you need be miserable," said Gladys.
"I'm not. Oh, there's the Prime Minister; I shall bow. That was a
failure. He looked at me like a fish. How rude the Cabinet makes
people! The Cabinet always goes about with the British Empire
pick-a-back. At least, it thinks the British Empire is pick-a-back.
The Empire doesn't. About Lord Lindfield. He's turning grey over the
temples, and I think that is so frightfully attractive. Of course,
he's awfully old; he must be nearly forty. He's dining to-night, isn't
he? Then I shall arrange the table. Yes, you needn't look like that. I
shan't make him take me in. He's supposed to be wicked, too. Oh,
Gladys, it is so nice if men go playing about, and then fall in love
with me. It's worth heaps of the other kind. Oh, don't look shocked;
it is silly to look shocked, and so easy."
The hansom waited for a moment at the junction of Orchard Street and
Oxford Street, and the innumerable company of locomotives sped by it.
Motors shot by with a whirr and a bubbling, hansoms jingled westwards,
large slow vans made deliberate progress, delaying the traffic as some
half-built dam impedes the course of flowing water till it finds a way
round it, and through the streams of wheels and horses pedestrians
scuttled in and out like bolted rabbits. The whole tide of movement was
at its height, and the little islands in mid-street were crowded with
folk who were cut off, it would seem, by the rising flood-water from all
communication with the shore, with but remote chance of escape. Then an
omnipotent policeman stepped out into the surging traffic, held up a
compelling and resistless hand, and at his gesture the tides, more
obedient to him than to Canute, ceased to flow, and the cross-movement
began, which permitted Daisy and her cousin to cross the stream. But
whether it was that the stoppage in their passage made a corresponding
halt in her thoughts, or whether, as was more likely, she had said all
that she meant to say on the subject of Lord Lindfield, she began, just
as they started to move again, on something widely different.
"And Aunt Jeannie comes to-morrow," she said, "which is quite
delightful. For I do believe I've missed her every single day since she
went away a year ago. And if I do that, you may depend upon it that she
is very nice indeed. As a rule, I like people very much when they are
there, and I get along excellently without them when they are not."
"Quite--quite true," said Gladys, with a touch of acidity.
"It's much the most sensible plan," continued Daisy, perceiving, but
completely ignoring, the tone. "It does no good to miss people, and, as
I say, I seldom do it. But I always miss Aunt Jeannie. I should like to
see her every day of my life. It would be dreadful to see most people
every day, though I like them so much when I do see them. Oh, Gladys
darling, don't look as if you were in church! You can't take things
lightly, you know."
"And you can't take them in any other way," remarked Gladys.
"Oh, but I can; it is only that I don't usually choose to. It is a great
blessing I don't take every one seriously. If I took Willie seriously, I
should find him a great bore; as it is, I think he is quite charming,
and I should certainly marry him if I were fifty."
"It was forty-three just now," said Gladys.
"Yes; but being with you has made me grow older very quickly," said
Daisy.
Gladys laughed; with Daisy it was very true that "c'est le ton qui fait
la musique," and the same words which in another tone could have wounded
her, now merely amused. It had taken her a long time to get used, so to
speak, to this brilliant, vivid friend, who turned such an engaging
smile on the world in general, and shone with supreme impartiality on
the wicked and the good, and to know her, as she knew her now, with
greater thoroughness than she knew herself. Ethically, if Gladys had
been put to the question on her oath, she would have had to give the
most unsatisfactory account of her friend, and, to sum up all questions
in one, it would have come to this--that she believed Daisy to be quite
heartless. But, humanly, there was in Daisy much to take the place of
that profound organ. She had the joy of life and the interest in life to
a supreme degree, and though she resolutely turned her back on anything
disagreeable or ugly, her peremptory dismissal of such things was more
than made up for by her unbounded welcome of all that pleased her. You
had only to please her (and she was very ready to be pleased), and she
poured sunlight on you. And Gladys, who was naturally rather shy, rather
slow to make friends, rather reticent, soon grasped this essential fact
about Daisy, and having grasped it, held tightly to it. She felt she
would not readily go to Daisy if she was in trouble, but there was no
one to whom she would hurry with such certainty of welcome if she was
happy. And though, no doubt, sympathy, to be complete, must feel for
sorrow as keenly as it feels for joy, yet a nature that feels keenly for
joy and turns its back on sorrow is perhaps quite as fine a one as that
which, though it may be an excellent comforter, is rather of the nature
of a wet blanket when a happy soul appeals to it for sympathy. And on
joy, whether her own or that of another, Daisy never turned her back.
She delighted in the happiness of others.